


Flashback

by lacemonster



Series: Lacemonster's Requests [1]
Category: Batman - All Media Types, DCU (Comics)
Genre: Amnesia, Angst, Betrayal, Dirty Talk, M/M, Manipulation, No Lube, Rough Sex, Smut, fuckboy Ric
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-08
Updated: 2018-11-08
Packaged: 2019-08-20 17:33:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,477
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16560206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacemonster/pseuds/lacemonster
Summary: Request (posted with the requester's authorization) for: "Slade sees his opportunity to take advantage of Dick (amnesia Ric). He manipulates a vulnerable Dick into thinking that he loved his time as Renegade. Slade tells Dick they slept together and kisses him or something, which leads Dick to kinda have a quick flashback type thing to sleeping with Slade. Because he briefly remembers having sex with Slade, he believes him. Smut and plenty of angst please!"Set during the amnesia arc in Nightwing Rebirth.





	Flashback

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PleasantlyCasualStrawberry](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PleasantlyCasualStrawberry/gifts).



> I started this request around the first issue of the amnesia arc please so no one come at me for inconsistencies lol I already know that some of the things in this fic don't hold up as of, uh, last Wednesday (apparently Ric doesn't have an apartment and just squats now which. of course he does.)
> 
> This was posted with PleasantlyCasualStrawberry's permission! Thank you so much for commissioning me! To be honest, I was a little worried about writing fuckboy Ric, but I actually had a lot of fun piling on the angst in this fic... so thank you for the amazing idea and giving me permission to post it on top of that. <3

 

_A stranger was swinging on a trapeze._

_Ric crept to the edge of the platform, daring a look. There was no ground. Just a straight shot into the darkness. As he stood there, an endless distance away from the ground, a sudden fear of heights crept into him. It made him sick, his legs weak. Terrified that he would trip or slip into the void below, he backed away a step._

_“Don't go away,” a voice said._

_A man’s voice, Ric realized. Familiar, yet…_

_Ric's eyes shot up, expecting to see his father's face, but the silhouette of the trapeze artist was just that—a silhouette. The trapeze swung forward, the sourceless blue light revealing the edges of the aerialist's face—then he swung backwards, fading back into the pitch black shadows._

_“Help me across, Ric.”_

_Ric's heart sunk. He thought about what would happen if he fell. He'd die before he ever hit the bottom._

_Ric lingered on the man's voice. There was something compelling in that voice. He_ wanted _to help the man. But he was afraid of falling. He thought about his parents. They had died on a trapeze. Ric hadn't been able to save them, so could he save this stranger?_

_“Please,” the voice said, in a way that seemed to echo inside of Ric’s mind._

_Breathing in shakily, Ric stepped to the railing. He untied the trapeze there, then moved to the edge._

_His toes hung off the precipice. Fear consumed Ric, the terror swelling up inside his chest, pushing up through his throat, threatening to choke him—_

_Suddenly images flashed across his mind._

_Blood—red and angry._

_A flash of his father's cracked skull, his busted nose._

_A flash of his mother’s twisted neck._

_Ric didn't step off the platform so much as he fell._

_The heel of his foot sloped off the edge and he was dropping, dropping. His stomach fell with him, his heart hammering hard and fast now, blood draining from his face. He forgot how to breathe, his arms feeling too weak to hold his body—his body had never, never felt this damn heavy—and his hands—they gripped and gripped, holding the trapeze for life, but he was sweaty and his hands were clammy and oh God he was going to let go, his hands were going to let go and he was going to fall and die—_

_“Catch me!”_

_“I—I can't!” Ric yelled._

_They swung out of sync. Ric closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the brush of air on skin. He let himself glide through the full arc of his swing. Something awakened inside of him. He remembered practices and performances alike. He remembered when swinging on a trapeze was second nature._

_He reopened his eyes and repositioned himself on the trapeze. He was terrified and nervous and was certain if he moved, he would die, but he moved anyways._

_He hooked his legs onto the trapeze. He felt the blood rush through his body to his head as he fell forward, eyes staring straight into the void as he sunk into the air. He was upside down now, legs hooked around the bar for life._

_He swung forward, adding his weight into his swing, willing himself closer to the stranger._

_“Catch me!” the voice screamed, frightened now, and Ric had to force down his own fear._

_They moved in tandem. Ric reached for the man's hand. His heart jumped when they made contact—but then just as quickly as they had touched, they slipped away._

_The trapeze pendulumed back. Ric watched as he drew further away from his partner. Watched as he disappeared into nothingness, all because Ric hadn't caught him._

_Ric steeled himself._

_The next swing._

_On the next swing, he would catch him._

_The trapeze hit the top of its arc, then swooped down and forward._

_He would catch him._

_He saw the stranger coming into focus now. Ric didn't look away. He stretched his arm forward, preparing to grab, readying his strength to hold on—_

_He felt the hand._

_His heart skipped, eyes widening._

_Fear stabbed into him. He shouted in surprise, looking into black beady eyes. The face was fleshy and red, the nose smashed like a pig's, the teeth sharp and pointed and milky, bumps and profusions like warts across the skin, thousands of short brown hairs sprouting across its head._

_Ric didn't hold on. He felt the sharp yank in his arms, the weight tugging him so hard that he was almost dragged down with it._

_The bat screamed as it fell. Ric's heart pounded loud and hard through his ears, dread sinking into, eyes bulging as he watched the fall—falling and falling and—_

 

Ric sat up in bed, gasping for air. His heart was beating fast and hard, pounding like it was working its way to rip out of his chest. He felt this sickness and fear in his body, consuming him, and when he saw the dark room around him, he thought that he, too, was being swallowed into nothingness.

His eyes turned frantically around the room. The more of the room he took in, the more the adrenaline began to subside. He gulped a breath of air and looked around. He was fine. He was alive, he wasn't in pain. Once he realized that, he began to calm down.

Taking in his surroundings helped ground him. He held onto the things he could remember in an effort to relax—the bedside table, the shadow of the lamp, the blinking digital clock. Eventually, his heartbeat slowed to normal. He squeezed his eyes shut, embracing the darkness this time, and breathed.

It was just a dream.

He placed his face in his hands. He felt the heat of his heavy breaths against his palms—in, out, in, out. The tension in his brow began to relax, the relief spreading from his head to his toes, the uneasiness in his stomach finally settling. He was fine. It was just a nightmare. And if it wasn't a nightmare, if it was all true, it was over now. It was a lifetime ago.

Ric stayed there for a moment, just breathing into his hands, until the feeling passed, when the comfort of his hand began to feel suffocating instead. Ric lifted his head, smoothing his hands over the crown of his head. As he did so, he paused at the raised tissue near his temple.

He opened his eyes, staring straight ahead into the darkness of the night, fingers following the trace of his scar.

He tried to remember.

But nothing.

One week.

One week ago, he had almost died. He had a life that was nearly ended, a life that he had no recollection of. Since then, the people who were not his parents had tried to reach out to him, to tell him of the life that he once had. A life that embraced the night. A life of flying from rooftops, of chasing a moon, of descending on criminal prey.

_Nightwing,_ they called him.

But to him, he had always just been Richard Grayson.

His mind was alert. His mouth felt dry. He threw the covers off his nearly naked body, feet finding the bare floor. Ric didn't remember his old life, no. But he had memorized the space of his room, the placement of the furniture. He found comfort in that. Comfort in being grounded in something that was real, as opposed to the fantasy stories that everyone tried to fill in his head.

He walked through the dark, hand easily finding the bedroom doorknob, feet walking into the hall. He turned toward the kitchen to grab a glass of water and stopped.

His heart skipped, panic sinking into his stomach. He was so startled by the shadow in the window that he grabbed at the nearest surface. From there, he was frozen, a rabbit listening to the vibrations of dangerous predators, not wanting to leave unless necessary, but ready to bolt at the first cue to flee.

The man from the balcony entrance turned his head. Ric followed the reflection on the glass sliding-doors to the man’s mask. The invader had pushed aside the curtains, bringing in the full glow of the moonlight. Contrasted against the shadows of the dark, Ric only caught part of the mask—copper, dividing into black.

Ric's eye travelled to several points on the man. He registered the silhouette of the sword handle on his back. The straps and thick armor, styled in a uniformed, military-like fashion. This man screamed of violence.

“Who are you?” he said, mouth still dry.

He should have been more afraid, but everything about his life was confusing. Lost answers and floating questions. He was so used to having missing pieces that he could no longer be surprised by mysteries. Instead, he found himself more curious than afraid.

“I heard there was a hit on you,” the man said. His deep voice was hollowed by the mask. There was something eerie in it. Eerie and… familiar. Ric's eyelids lowered, his ear trying to close in on the voice. The man started to walk across the room, toward him. Ric stood there, letting him draw closer. “I had to see for myself if it was true.”

The man stopped just a few feet away from him. They stared each other down. The man tilted his head.

“You're alive. That's good. If anyone's going to kill Nightwing, it better not be some two-bit mercenary. It better be me.”

At that, Ric's heartrate picked up. He could feel his heart thrum in his ears. He drew back a step and the floorboard creaked in response, betraying him. He hadn't remembered that the floorboard was loose.

“I'm not here to kill you. I just wanted to investigate.” There was a pause. “You don't remember me, do you?”

As if able to see through the darkness, a hand reached out and touched his face. Ric was frozen at the touch, his skin bristling defensively, his heart pounding hard. The hand settled over the scar, just like Ric had done with his own hand not too long ago. A moment of thoughtful silence.

“You've forgotten Nightwing,” the man said simply. “But have you forgotten Renegade?”

_Renegade._ Ric's memory was spotty. There was some things he could remember. Flashes of memory in different points in time. For whatever reason, Ric's memory seemed to have latched onto this man, because everything he said or did had a familiarity to it. But all the puzzle pieces surrounding the man were too fractured and tainted—Ric had a semblance of an idea, but not the full picture.

Who was this man? Who was…

“Renegade,” Ric murmured, as if in a trance.

“Yes, Renegade. My partner, my accomplice. You trained my daughter. You walked in my shadow. We were a team.”

Ric listened closely to the man's voice, not pulling away when he drew in ever closer. He wanted to remember. He wanted to remember something, anything. When it came to the others—Batman and Batgirl and Robin and everyone else—they forced him to remember, they pushed for it. In Ric's frustration, he turned away from them. But this man—Ric felt a connection, and so he was drawn toward him. He had to think. He had to remember. He had to know his purpose in all of this, had to know the person he was.

Ric pulled away from the man. But instead of running away, he circled around him. As the man lifted his head in the direction of the window, the light struck him full-on.

Something clicked.

“Deathstroke,” Ric breathed, and tears nearly sprung to his eyes, the power of his first returned memory overwhelming him. It was like finding his way through a maze, like breaking down a wall. And everything was cloudy but one thing was certain, and it was this man's name. “Deathstroke, that's your name.”

“Slade,” he said.

“Slade,” Ric repeated, and while he felt an itch at the back of his head, he couldn't connect the name. Still, he believed this man.

Something still bothered Ric. All the things everyone had told him—none of those things had clicked. But this man. _Deathstroke._ He had. He clicked. He made sense, when none of the others had.

Why?

“But—Renegade. Who is Renegade? I'm Nightwing.” Ric shook his head to himself, frustrated. “Everyone told me I was Nightwing. So why—”

“You _were_ Nightwing. Yes. But you left that behind. You joined me. Batman couldn't give you what you wanted, what you needed.”

He had drawn close. Ric hadn't realized _how_ close until Slade grabbed him.

Something went off in Ric's head as that strong hand wrapped around his arm. Something told him to run, that Slade was dangerous. It was a signal that was hidden deep inside of his instincts—but Ric consciously shoved it aside. He had to wait this out. He had to understand who he was. He looked up at Slade, eyes big and searching.

“He wanted to control you. He still wants to control you,” Slade said.

And Ric instantly knew who he was referring to.

_Batman._

Was it true? When Slade said it, it seemed to make sense. A vague feeling entered inside of Ric, something that spoke of truth. Yes. Yes, Batman had tried to control him, didn't he? It was coming back to Ric. He had ditched the red uniform for the blue. And then, with Slade, they had trained together. Him, Slade, Slade's daughter. Ric couldn't place a name or face on the daughter, but Slade—Slade had been there, and Ric remembered this feeling he had, this defiance inside of his chest toward Batman.

“He wanted to control me—but I was yours,” Ric said, realizing. His mind still turned this over, trying to figure out how it was true, how it could be true when everyone told him again and again and again that he was Nightwing. That he was _Batman’s_.

“Was? No,” Slade said. He tilted back his mask, up to the tip of his nose. The shadows fell heavily over the lower half of his face, but Ric could catch the faintest hint of his teeth as he spoke. He couldn't tell if Slade was snarling or smiling. “You're _still_ mine.”

Slade yanked Ric in forcefully, hand gripping bruisingly tight on his arm. He kissed him hard, their teeth nearly colliding. A beard scratched at Ric's skin, adding a layer of the unexpected to his shock. Ric gasped against Slade’s lips, heart jumping, skin bristling. But there was something in this. Something that was firing off memories. Little snapshot moments clicking across his mind.

He remembered the feel of that stubble scratching against his skin. Scratching his face, his chest, his groin. Those rough hands, pulling at his clothes, groping his flesh, entering inside of him.

And above all of that, that lingering thought, that pervasive feeling—

_You can't control me, Batman._

Ric slipped into the feeling. The impulses trained inside of him, no different than his ability to still fight, the ones that he forgot ever existed—now took over. He returned the kiss. He let his mouth part open, let Slade fill him with his tongue. Deep desire rushed through Ric's body, sparks on his tongue as their mouths met, wet and hot. The moan that rumbled up his throat felt familiar, sounded familiar. Wisps of memories came back to him. He had experienced this before. He had done this before. He had done this with Slade.

He was younger then, Ric was sure of it. The memories flooded in as Ric slipped his hands behind Slade’s neck, pulling him in deeper. Lips mashed together, tongues brushing against teeth. He was younger and he had come onto Slade, just like this, and Slade never pushed him away. Slade always gave him what he wanted.

_Why did you want him so badly? What pushed you into it? He was a bad man._

Bad?

That thought lingered on Ric's brain, even when Slade's tongue met his, the taste of desire making Ric's thoughts all hazy.

_Was_ he bad?

But that would have made Ric bad too, which went against everything everyone had ever told him.

Ric's mind reeled in the truths and the lies, but all thoughts were quickly cut off. Slade slipped his hand down to Ric's groin, grabbing him through his underwear. Ric groaned, Slade nipped at his bottom lip, and Ric leaned into his touch. Slade’s hand was demanding and firm, grabbing him and rubbing him, _squeezing_ him. He gasped sharply into Slade’s beard.

“Do you remember this?” Slade breathed against his wet lips, his voice heated. His voice. Naked now, unfiltered by the mask. Something in it ran shivers down Ric's spine, words floating into his memory.

_Batman can't give you this, can he?_

A hand moved, wrangling underneath the underwear, grabbing his ass. Their bodies were pushed together, Ric's erection pressed up against Slade’s thigh. Ric rolled his hips forward, desperately. Wanting that friction, wanting more.

_I'll make you forget all about Batman._

“Remember me fucking you?” he growled into the crook of Ric's neck, voice rumbling against his throat, the beard scratching against his skin.

The hand slipped down the crease of his ass. Ric felt himself shudder, the want inside of him growing. He let out a small cry, torn between surprise and unexpected pain, as Slade pushed a dry finger into him. Ric grabbed at his arm, wanting to stop him, his expression squeezing in reaction to the pain and discomfort—but he didn't. He didn't think he could, even if tried. Slade shoved into him, hard and insistently, all the way up to the knuckle. Ric’s knees felt weak, weight leaned against him for support.

“Remember me deep inside your virgin ass?”

_I'll make you forget—_

Minutes, maybe seconds, passed. They were stumbling into the bedroom. Slade was pulling at him so much, attacking him with teeth and hands, that Ric lost all sense of direction. All of his carefully crafted memories of the apartment were thrown askew. He was thrown onto his bed, a leg lifted forcefully into the air.

Slade ducked his head down, mask still hanging off his head. Ric stared into the empty eyeholes of the mask as Slade's mouth wrapped over his entrance, tongue stroking over his hole. And Ric moaned, the sound elongated and desirous, because it _had_ been too long, hadn't it? It had been too long since Slade put his mouth on him. Been too long since they were in bed, Slade pulling Ric onto his face, his strong arms holding Ric in place. He used to work him up with his mouth and tongue, giving it to him so good that Ric would _beg_ him to enter him.

Too long.

Why did they stop anyways?

Slade pressed his tongue against Ric, hot breath covering Ric's sensitive skin, nose pressed into the flesh, beard itching him. Ric moaned, his cock now leaking hard. Slade ran his tongue against his entrance, stroking him over and over, getting him wet.

Slade was going to fuck him. Somewhere inside his messed-up brain, Ric just knew that. He was going to fuck him like he used to fuck him after a hard day of training, after too many glances at each other when Ric was supposed to be instructing Slade's daughter. Sometimes they wouldn't even wait until they were somewhere proper. The minute they seemed alone, Slade would take him, sometimes fast and hard, sometimes painfully, but Ric never minded, because he had waited, he had waited so long for this—

_How long? Since Batman?_

Since training. Since that time Ric took off his shirt for a sparring demonstration. Slade had pinned him to the ground—he was so strong. Strong and dangerous. Stronger than Ric and yet, he had asked Ric to train his daughter anyways, had Ric train her instead—

_You were training her to be good. That's what he told you. You were training her to not become like him._

Ric could feel those muscles now. He pushed Slade off of him, wanting him so badly that it frustrated him, and he handled Slade as if he were angry. He ran his hands over the hard biceps and pecs and abdomen. Slade's body was riddled with scars and bulletmarks, just like his. Ric ran his hand down Slade’s body, slipping through the thick hair of his groin to his cock. He felt the girth and weight of it, the heat of it, in the palm of his hand. His body responded to it, his own cock throbbing between his legs, arousal spreading hot across his face and chest and groin.

Ric knelt on the bed, lips pressed against Slade’s cock, tasting the precum there with a stroke of his tongue. The taste and smell of sex fuelled his desire. He opened his mouth, taking the head into him, and he moaned. Slade seemed to fit into him so well, weighing on his tongue. Ric swallowed more of him, hands wrapping around Slade’s hips to pull himself further along. The deeper he sank, the flatter along the bed he laid, his back arched with his ass in the air.

He felt Slade grab his ass, hands rough, grip hard. Ric moaned around Slade's cock, the erection now filling his mouth. And he was full, so full—his lips were stretched, hot flesh laid against his tongue, the head nearly breaching his throat. He hadn't taken all of him, no, but what he had taken filled him with this sense of comfort. He stayed there for a moment, basking in the feeling of being filled, the smell of sex stronger now. Slade squeezed his ass and Ric moaned again, almost wishing Slade could be in two places at once, filling his mouth and ass.

Ric moved his head, savoring the feeling of Slade's cock sliding against his tongue. He sucked him, lips wrapped tightly around him. And Slade pushed into him too, his breath quickening, this deep and guttural—almost animalistic—sounds to his breaths as he steadily fucked Ric's mouth.

“Did you miss that, boy? You always did like sucking my cock, even if you never admitted it. You used to finish with my dick inside your mouth all the time.”

_Boy._

Ric's eyelids lowered.

Something about that term felt bittersweet. He couldn't explain why.

Slade grabbed Ric's head, pulling himself along his cock faster. Faster, faster. He was pistoning in and out of Ric's mouth and Ric had no choice but to lay there, flat, as Slade fucked him. At times, the head of Slade's cock stabbed at his throat, making Ric choke or cough, but he didn't care. He had finally found something familiar and he wanted nothing more than to hold on. He had touched onto a part of his old self that made sense and he needed it, needed to know the truth. And it hurt, yes. There was hurt in the physical sense, and hurt in the strange melancholy that began to creep inside his chest, but it was better to understand the hurt than to not know.

It had always hurt, being with Slade, hadn't it? Ric didn't know why that was. Maybe that's all his life had been, after his parents died. Maybe he just _hurt._ And maybe that was reason to pull away, but Ric didn't, because he couldn't stand the confusion of not knowing who he was anymore.

And if all Slade had ever done was hurt him, maybe helping Ric remember could be the best thing Slade ever did.

Ric was forcefully pushed off Slade with a hard shove to the head. His lips were sore and full, his breath short. Ric didn't have time to even wipe the wetness from his lips when Slade knocked him onto the bed. Ric laid on the mattress, looking up at the shadowed figure that crawled between his legs. He caught a glimpse of Slade's cock, big and flushed and glistening.

Ric inhaled sharply as Slade began to prod between his legs. He found his way in straightaway—from experience, Ric realized. Slade jerked forward, his cock slipping a few inches deep. He wasn't in all the way, Ric knew there was more, but he hoped that was all. It hurt. Ric exhaled, not realizing he had been holding his breath. His hands tightened around the sheets, his face hot and starting to sweat.

“You're tight,” Slade said, words heavy. His hips thrusted, stuttering its way inside, and Ric’s teeth ground down at the pain. “You needed me.”

Ric wasn't sure if that was true. But beneath the pain, there was desire. His cock was still hard, laying against his stomach. He felt this urge to push back, to take more of Slade's cock inside of him, even though the stretch of him was unbearable as it was. Ric's whole body was hot from the effort and strain, but he wanted to keep going.

Slade balanced himself on his fists. His body hovered over Ric, a black shadow, and he seemed huge. Ric looked up at him, eyes now hot with tears, and yet—he felt comforted somehow. He looked up at that dark form blanketing over him, casting shadows on his body, sensed the familiarity, and felt _comfort._

Slade rocked into him. And the more he moved, the lesser the pain. The fucking now faded into a dull discomfort, building up in heat and friction. Slade fucked him in this steadfast, forceful way that Ric liked. Ric listened to the grunts of Slade's voice, the subtle rises and falls of his breaths. Ric closed his eyes, mesmerized in the rocking of their bodies, the entanglements of their limbs, the heat between his legs. This was fine. The pain was beginning to numb. It would numb.

Slade rammed into him hard and Ric twisted in the bed, groaning. He could feel Slade throb inside of him, could sense his growing arousal. Ric’s breath quickened, his own desire attuning to Slade's. The more he moaned, the harder Slade seemed to fuck him. The harder Slade fucked him, the more he moaned.

The mattress groaned under their moving weight. Slade fucked into him fast now, their bodies clapping together, their sex loud.

“I'm going to fuck you so hard you'll never forget,” he breathed, leaning into Ric's neck, teeth digging into his shoulder. Ric cried out, his own erection throbbing against their trapped bodies. Slade released, his breath fanning over the indented mark on Ric's skin. “You're going to feel me for days.”

Ric wrapped his arms and legs around Slade's massive form, pulling him in closer. Deeper. Ric could feel every inch of Slade, hot and thick, stretching him out, moving inside of him. It would curve into him, making him see sparks. Slade's mouth was everywhere—at his jawline, his throat, his collarbone. His hands gripped Ric hard, holding him in place as he rammed into him, the entire bed moving in tandem with his powerful thrusts. Ric thought it might break. He thought _he_ might break. He didn't care. All he cared about was Slade's cock fucking him deep, his hard stomach pressing against Ric's erection as they moved. All Ric cared about was the heat spiralling in his body, the adrenaline in his veins, the quickened breaths and moans that slipped past his lips.

He could catch the subtle hitches and stutters in Slade's breath. Was he close too? It was strange how Ric could sense that, how he knew that. His hands dug into Slade’s back, holding on. His hips angled up, back curving, to better take Slade's cock.

Slade slid into him, faster now. He let out a breathy groan, the sound of unbridled arousal and desire. Ric begged for it softly, whispering into Slade's skin, and he meant every word.

Inside of me.

Come on.

Mark me.

Make me yours.

_Make me someone._

A few hard thrusts, rocking Ric onto the mattress, and with a deep sound, Slade finished inside of him. Ric’s body shook, shivers running down his spine, as hot seed spilled inside of him. An elongated moan spills past his lips as Slade finished inside of him, cock throbbing, ejaculate filling him up nice and thick.

Slade captured his mouth, the kiss wet and hot, and Ric shudders again at the breath that touches his lips. He can feel his erection pressed up against Slade's warm body, desperate and leaking. He gasps when he felt a hand envelop his cock, pumping it, the pleasure steadily rising. Ric grabbed onto the uniform, the smell of leather filling his sense, the warm darkness of his body pressed closely to Ric's face.

“I got you, boy.”

Ric believed him.

 

The sounds of chaos surrounded him—the barks of guns, the zipping lines, the clangs of knives. Ric moved expertly through the crowd of frightened bodies, moving so natural in the face of battle that there was no doubt that he belonged there.

“Renegade!”

Ric’s head moved sharply upwards. Slade was on the level above him. Ric caught him just as he disappeared out of sight. Quickly, Ric used the fixtures and railings to pull himself higher up the building. He felt nothing but confidence and determination with every stretch of his arm, every step that lifted him higher.

He pulled himself up over the edge. He stopped, only for a moment, when he recognized Slade’s opponent. But then he watched Slade get slammed into a wall and his senses kicked back in. He rushed forward, ramming his weight into the enemy.

In the tussle, a hand managed to grab Ric, holding him in place.

Ric looked, meeting gazes with Batman.

“Dick, stop this,” he said.

And Ric tried, for a moment. Tried to give Batman the benefit of the doubt.

“This isn't you. You don't help killers,” he said.

But nothing clicked.

Ric threw Batman off of him, knocking him into the wall. He threw a fist in the man's face, then another. Batman held his arms up to defend himself. Ric delivered a strong kick that brought the man down to one knee.

Why wasn't he fighting back?

Ric ignored the thought. He moved to strike again—but an arm grabbed him.

“Unless he's a mark, he's none of our concern. Let's go, kid,” Slade said.

And Ric did, but only because Slade told him to.

They ran and ran. They got in the getaway car, speeding out of Gotham. The adrenaline and the rush of the hunt was still thick in Ric's veins. He rolled down the window, feeling the air brush against his sweaty skin as the car flew down the roads, and he felt like was soaring.

They didn't even make it to the hideout when Slade parked the car, dragging him into the back of the van.

Ric laid on the hard metal floor, Slade climbing on top of him. He closed his eyes, listening to the man’s breaths, the hands on his skin. It brought back the days of Ric's youth, him and Slade grabbing at each other after a training session or mission. It brought back the only days that Ric could remember, the only days that made sense.

He knew by the heat of his body and the desire in his brain that he wanted this. That it was all he had, that he needed this. Yet for some reason, he couldn't get Batman out of his mind. He thought about those eyes that looked back at him, through those arms raised in defense. He remembered the betrayal in those eyes as they stared into him.

Calling out to him, yet unreachable.

Ric opened his eyes, hands digging underneath the hard edges of Slade’s mask. No more secrecy, he decided. Only truth.

“Let me see your face.”

Slade’s hands replaced his, pulling the mask off the rest of the way. In the dim light, Ric could see his face. The rough beard, the strong bridge of his nose, the white hair, the narrowed blue eye that seemed to have been shaped from squinting too long into the dark. And the long jagged scar that ran across his missing eye.

Ric looked into this face, which he had faced many times before—in bed, in battle—and carefully, as the bridges of his memory formed together, as his eyes opened and his face began to fall—the slow realization seeped into him. First into his mind. Then sinking, sinking into the rest of his body.

_I’ll make you forget all about Batman._

He looked, unable to tear away, the understanding rushing through him, until finally—

Dick remembered.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading!
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/lacemonsterbats)


End file.
